


those softer things

by dastardlyenables



Series: until my heart caves in [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dastardlyenables/pseuds/dastardlyenables
Summary: He blinked, slow, and his expression was of a soft befuddlement that had Shank biting the inside of his cheek.  It was adorable in a weird sort of way, and Shank was not going to hit on the cute, probably-homeless stranger who'd just saved his little cousins. He wasn't.The least thing Shank could do was offer the man a sandwich.  And a shower.  And a place to crash.  And a load of laundry.
Series: until my heart caves in [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913509
Comments: 7
Kudos: 111





	those softer things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/gifts).



> This whole thing is Kat's fault. Especially the fact that there's more

Shank stepped out of the bathroom still scrubbing the water out of his curls with his towel—though he had, deliberately, remembered to toss on his pajama pants—and turned to look at his 'guest' still huddled up in a tight curl on the couch. The man still hadn't lost his mostly shell-shocked expression since Shank first ushered him into his small flat and hustled him down on the couch to fix him a sandwich and a glass of water. He'd mumbled 'Jon' when Shank had asked for his name, with all the painful awkwardness of someone who didn't know how they wanted to answer that kind of question. Shank had seen it before, working ER shifts because the hospital was short-staffed, and he'd specialized in trauma.

"Hey," Shank called, quiet, careful not to startle and Jon's gaze shifted from the fascinating middle distance of the paint-flaking crown moulding to turn to him with pale, luminous grey eyes. "Do you want to use the shower?"

Jon's eyes dipped down towards Shank's chest still seemingly rather zoned and swallowed, before he seemed to startle, suddenly, and his gaze shot back up towards Shank's face. He blinked, slow, and his expression was of a soft befuddlement that had Shank biting the inside of his cheek. It was adorable in a weird sort of way, and Shank was  _ not _ going to hit on the cute, probably-homeless stranger who'd just saved his little cousins. He wasn't.

There was a long pause, and then Jon started to open his mouth, hesitant, before shutting it again, and casting his eyes down towards the floor, as if unsure what to respond, and Shank decided a little more coaxing was in order.

"I can toss your clothes in the washer with mine, while you do. I've got a spare set of pajama pants and a T-shirt, and it'll give me some time to make up the couch, too, if you wanted to crash here for the night."

Jon looked up at him mouth opening and closing soundlessly before finally, hesitantly, "I don't want to impose—"

"You're not." Shank cut in, with the steamrolling authority of an older brother. "It's the least I can do, honestly."

Jon looked as if he wanted to argue with that point, and Shank used the advantage of his standing height over Jon's curled-up perching one to look down at him with a raised eyebrow that dared him to argue. Jon didn't. Instead, he unfolded from the couch to stand, all long, thin limbs with twisting scars and stringy, lean muscle that made Shank want to make him another sandwich or seven. Shank stepped aside to let him into the bathroom, reaching into the adjacent linen closet and passing him a fresh towel as he passed. Jon's hands, calloused, with slender, long fingers and knobbled knuckles, dug into the soft plush of the towel, almost in spite of himself, and he clutched it tightly to his chest before he shut the bathroom door behind him.

Shank turned back towards the linen closet and pulled out a spare set of worn sheets, soft and fuzzy with repeated washings. He set those to the side, and squatted down, leaning in further to fish out a stack of folded blankets. The sheets were then carefully pulled over the couch cushions to make it up much like a mattress, and the blankets were carefully balanced over the worn armrest. Couch made, he ducked into his bedroom to grab a soft pair of overly-worn sweats before turning back to the bathroom door. Shank knocked against the door with the back of his knuckles, just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the shower spray and the rattling of the hot water pipes. There was a curious hum and a mumble that Shank chose to interpret as acceptance, and he eased the door open a crack to deliver the new set of clothes, snagging the carefully folded pile of Jon's clothes on his way out.

The washer and dryer unit were tucked further away, into a nook off the kitchen. Shank began to sort through the pockets of his own clothes before chucking them into the washer, fishing out a spare pager from his scrub pockets to shove back onto the charge rack when he headed into work tomorrow. There was a crumpled gum wrapper as well, which he tossed in the direction of the kitchen trash, followed by a crumpled receipt. The pockets of Jon’s pants, in contrast, held absolutely nothing; not even the night-inevitable lint-y detritus common in most well-worn pants. The shirt has definitely seen better days, and Shank set it aside to wash by hand, fighting the urge to chuck it towards the trash much like the gum wrapper. Jon wasn’t one of his extended family clan of dumbasses, that he could just toss their ragged clothes out because they were waiting for it to disintegrate in the washing machine. Shank considered trying to shove a new shirt into his hands anyways, from the emergency sibling clothes stash in his bedroom dresser.

A flashing glint of light caught Shank’s attention from the pockets of Jon’s coat, and as he emptied the pockets, he found a small collection of strange odds and ends: Two small leaves, bright with brilliant fall hues even though it was late March. A curled bundle of soft wool yarn, the fancy kind with variegated thickness and interwoven with glittering golden tinsel. A rough-polished, oblong river stone with a small pinhole near the narrower end. Shards from a car’s shattered side mirror, each the splintered edges carefully sanded smooth. They were all fairly unique objects in their own way, things he would have expected in one of his little cousin’s shoebox collection of treasures. Shank reached up into the adjacent kitchen cupboard and snagged one of his chipped ceramic dishes before carefully laying out all of Jon’s keepsakes for the man to grab later. He checked the coat’s pockets again, and confirming them empty, tossed the coat in on top of the rest of the load and started the washer.

About the same time, the pipes in the bathroom quieted, and the sound of the shower slowly dwindled. It wasn’t much later that the door from the small bathroom opened with a puff of steam, and Jon stepped out, soft towel over his head and still gripped tightly in his hands. Shank’s clothing was an interesting study of contrasts on his frame, and Shank ducked his head to keep from staring. Jon was  _ tall _ , something he hadn’t noticed because of how thin he seemed. The matching sweatshirt-sweatpants pair from Shank’s days in uni both dwarfed and shrunk Jon in turns. Shank himself was a little more on the bulky side, but Jon was practically swimming in the excess of fabric hanging off him. Even given how oversized it was, however, the edge of the sweatshirt only just brushed the top of the waistband, and the elastic-gathered ends of pants legs dangled awkwardly three or four inches above Jon’s ankles. His toes were rather long, Shank noticed, slender just like his knobbled fingers, curling in a reflection of Jon’s nervousness against the worn wooden floorboards. Shank abruptly turned away, realizing he had been staring.

He grabbed the dish with Jon’s collection of treasures and turned back, holding it out towards Jon in offering before jerking his head towards the couch.

“If you need anything else just let me know.” Jon opened his mouth, and Shank quickly continued. “It won’t be any trouble; I’m going to be up to finish the laundry anyways, and I’ve got some paperwork I need to do.” Jon’s face softened into something approaching a wry smile, his bright, pale grey-eyes luminous through the bedraggled wet fall of his dark hair. Shank swallowed, staring for a moment too long, before abruptly stepping to the side and heading towards the overly-large closet he’d claimed as a home-office, hitting the light switch on his way out.

“Thank you.” The words were barely above a whisper, but Shank stopped, and dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“Don’t mention it.”

Those grey eyes glinted softly as they followed Shank’s back until the door eased shut.


End file.
